three poems

three poems

Poetry

Jul 24

Written By David Estringel

by Chloe Wheeler

free wifi

one of two passengers

Coney Island bound N train.

the sweet old lady asks

Вы говорите по-русски?

a missed connection

i do not

in Johnny’s van later

the sun melts over the sea

i am all giggles

nibbling a baguette

wedged in between beautiful

actors, i assume the role

of The Carefree.

unable to translate

my laughter into language,

stoned into silence.

“Somebody to Love” blasting

resonate FM fuzz

i bit my tongue today

reassessed some boundaries.

eavesdropped upon at Seward park.

everyone knows too much about me, i tell

everybody everything, reside in

the limelight, monitored

by malingering forces—

QUIT LOOKING @ ME. showered in shards

from jimmying a window open,

paper thin pane shattering

across the fire escape,

my dress, my best friend.

all i wanted to do was sleep

listen to sad slow core,

dream of how i was

before

all this nonsense ensued,

before i was caught

in a sudden thunderstorm

directly positioned over Bushwick.

dress drenched at taco dinner.

so high the plates spin

on imaginary axles.

picking the pork

from the corn tortilla

chewing so slow

the meat mechanically

slides

down my gullet.

KEEP LOOKING @ ME. don’t forget i exist

Internet!! Follower Count.

Fake. Fake. Fake. scanning

the content

for flickers of myself.

i’m messaging someone

seeking connection

tapped into Link NYC

for free Wifi…

but to get that raw reality feel

you have to take the subway.

Don’t Follow

volatility will render you stagnant.

an object in motion

stays in motion,

until a secondary force

prevents it from doing so.

a bruised broken foot.

skin lifted from kneecaps,

bleeding out on the C train.

don’t let it get in the way of your fun.

wander to a Spanish wine bar,

(just in time) for a literary reading.

get wasted on Tempranillo.

sing Alice in Chains

in the kitchen.

swim in a slurred sonic space.

guitars. tambourines.

cocaine with the chefs.

settle into a strange space.

cinematic. a call back

to a different time.

a kind stranger 30 years your senior

might offer you a moment

of solace in his West Village studio.

sipping White Claw, he massages your feet,

smears antibiotic cream on your knees.

daddy please—

now you’re BEGGING

for something sweet.

Sour patch kids from the deli.

soft kisses. lotion.

warm socks.

pajamas.

but you leave in the morning

without saying farewell.

might as well.

hell—

you fell.

Forever twenty-one

caught shoplifting a Dubai chocolate bar.

today, the day before what would’ve been

your twenty second birthday. cheers.

never doing that again.

here’s to breaking bad habits.

here’s to breaking down.

here’s to TEARING up the town.

here’s to getting off scot-free.

here’s to poor little me—

traipsing away from ShopRite:

If you ever come back here,

we’re calling the cops.

NOW i’m home using your paintings

as placebo painkillers. huffing

the markers

you left at my apartment.

the clouds curl up like cotton candy, pale sugar

DUMPED into the machine at KENKA.

swirl, unfurl into the vast blueness.

your eyes. suburbia. Huntington Harbor.

in my memory eternally…

forever twenty-one.

security let me keep the rest of my paid merchandise.

a can of raspberry Arizona iced tea.

i sip it strolling by the sea, as we used to

do when we were younger.

i don’t finish it. too much sugar,

too many calories.

you can get away with indulgence

when you’re young.

metabolism. God Complex. like,

you’re INVINCIBLE.

the fragility of the body is not yet realized.

youth has a way of occluding the truth.

which is

you can’t just keep

getting away with it.